


pale skin

by timefighter



Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [9]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, HHHH PAIN!!, Hurt/Comfort, Niki and Wilbur are best friends, Niki | Nihachu Needs a Hug, No Romance, Pain, Panic Attacks, They’re best friends your honor, i like making you hurt, no beta we die like wilbur soot, not ghostbur, song: pale skin (the regrettes)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29456139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timefighter/pseuds/timefighter
Summary: niki reminisces about wilbur.TW: descriptions of panic attacks, panic attacks
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy & Niki | Nihachu, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128614
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	pale skin

**Author's Note:**

> please do not read if panic attacks are triggering to you! the one described here is fairly similar to the ones i experience, so it might not be accurate according to your experience.

Niki can still feel the breeze on her skin when she and Wilbur sat in that field over L’Manberg.  
She can still see his cheeks, his skin that had paled from months of living in Pogtopia.  
She can still hear his broken voice, the way he stumbled over his words and the way his pitch cracked and lifted.

WIlbur always spoke like he was giving the most important speech of his life, his phrases carefully selected and thoroughly convicted.  
He spoke as if he was composing the greatest symphony the world had ever heard, and Niki was happy to listen.

She always admired his mind, the mind that was too old for his body. The mind that wove webs of paragraphs, the mind that built temples of idioms and phrases only Wilbur could imagine.

If Niki were to step inside Wilbur’s brain, she wondered what she would find. Would she see palaces constructed to the clouds? Would she see gardens of adjectives, of nouns, of verbs? Would she see contemporary dances formed by locutions, great walls of parlance and passages?

Hot water runs down Niki’s back, steam clouding her eyes as she sits in the bathtub, the steady stream pounding at her back. Her clothes are soaked, her hair plastered to her skin like a vice.

Burning tears hide in the shower’s spray, mixing on her cheeks as she wraps her arms around her legs. Her knees are pulled to her chest, chin resting atop as Niki stares at the bathroom tile blankly.

Thoughts of Wilbur fog her brain.  
Memories of the smiling boy turned revolutionary turned traitor flash across her vision.  
She sees Wilbur glancing her way with a bright grin as they stood over their country, a newborn L’Manberg below them, its houses and buildings still under construction.  
She sees Wilbur’s fingers dancing over his guitar, chords tuned to perfection, his lilting voice traveling over the tumbling hills.  
She sees Wilbur stealing an extra pastry, mischievous eyes and quick hands slipping the croissant into his jacket pocket, a smirk and a wink being all she caught of the exchange.

Niki can feel her chest tightening, her breath drawing short.  
Oh.

Wilbur’s deathly pale skin appears in front of her, cold hands reaching for her throat as Niki braces herself against the cool tile wall.  
Oh.

She can’t breathe.  
She can’t breathe.  
Her vision is blurry, static crawling across her peripheral, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe—

Niki clutches at her throat, his phantom grip wrapping tighter and tighter.  
Oh.

She can’t breathe.  
She can’t breathe.  
Her vision is blurry, static crawling across her peripheral, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe—

Wilbur’s words are in her head, clear as day, reminding her it’s her fault that he’s dead, she’s the reason, it’s all her fault, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead—  
Oh.

Warm hands brush across her shoulders, soft touches and gentle whispers.  
Niki kicks out, screaming, crying, _anything_ —

She needs to get out.  
Out, out, out, out, out, out—  
 _Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout_ —

Niki doesn’t notice Puffy shutting the water off. She doesn’t notice Puffy wrapping her in a towel.  
“Niki,” the Captain’s steady voice draws her in like an ocean wave, comforting her. “I’m here. You’re alright.”

“N—no, Wilbur— Wilbur— Wilbur, he’s here, he’s— Puffy—” Niki stumbles over her words, her mind a jumbled mess as she glances around, the feeling of her best friend’s hands on her neck still there.

“You had a panic attack, Niki. It’s okay, I’m here. You’re alright, Niki.” Puffy keeps repeating her name. “Can you name five things you can see for me?”  
It takes Niki a moment to register what Puffy said.  
“I— I can see your hands… and I can see the wall… I can see the towel, and— and, um, the sink, and I can… I can— I can see your hair,” Niki finally pushes out, her friend rewarding her with a gentle squeeze and a kind smile.

“Now four things you can touch.”  
“I can… feel your hands. And, um… the tile,” Niki says, reaching out to feel the white quartz. “The tub.” Her fingers brush against the bathtub.  
“I can feel the towel, too,” her voice grows steadier.

“Three things you can hear,” Puffy encourages.  
“The faucet dripping,” the blonde says. “And your voice. I— I can hear Wilbur, still,” she admits, and Puffy nods, her hands smoothing down Niki’s drenched hair.

“Now, two things you can smell.”  
“I can smell… my conditioner,” Niki notices. “And you… you were in the Nether?”  
Puffy nods. “One thing you can taste.”  
Niki pauses. “Blood,” she confesses. “I think I bit my cheek.”  
Puffy beams. “You feel a little better now?”

Niki nods, her trembling hands teaching for her friend. Puffy pulls her into a tight hug, her warmth enveloping the blonde. Niki’s fingers brush over Puffy’s curled horns, stabilizing herself. Her friend gathers her in her arms, pulling her out of the bathtub and into Niki’s bedroom.

Puffy helps her change into a sweater and sweatpants, letting Niki curl against her side on Niki’s bed, sheets pulled over their flanks. Niki’s head rests against Puffy’s chest as she runs her fingers through the girl’s hair, softly detangling and soothing.

“Take a nap, then we can set up a picnic,” Puffy suggests, and Niki smiles, scooting impossibly closer.  
Puffy’s left to her own devices as she holds Niki’s fragile body in her arms.

_I’m sorry_ , she thinks she hears in her head. When she looks towards the door, Wilbur’s ghostly form is standing there with his hand on the door. His face is downcast, eyes sorrowful and tear—filled.

It’s not Ghostbur. Ghostbur wears a yellow sweater and red beanie, blue crystals hidden in his pockets.  
This is Wilbur. His trench coat holds no sign of war, only worn as every good jacket should be. His beanie rests atop his curls that fall over his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Puffy says, even though it is. She beckons him with a hand.  
Puffy and Wilbur were never close. Warring nations and battlefields held them apart, though Puffy was never one for grudges.

She holds her free hand out to Wilbur. He lifts his slowly, letting her take it. His fingers are translucent against hers, a grayish tint overcoming his pale skin.  
“She misses you,” Puffy says truthfully. Wilbur nods.

_I miss her, too._

Niki and Puffy sit in the same field over L’Manberg, a picnic blanket laid out beneath them. A light breeze ruffles her blonde hair, Puffy’s sunglasses discarded to the side.  
Niki and Puffy lean against a large oak tree and share chocolate croissants, laughs darting between the two as Puffy tells joke after joke.

Niki leaves an extra pastry out. Just in case.  
She doesn’t feel Wilbur as he settles next to her, head resting on her shoulder, ghostly hands strumming his guitar.


End file.
